


Misbehaviour

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 04:12:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail/Hank. They have a night off, and are terribly sneaky about having it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misbehaviour

 It is raining. He's soaked to his skin because he hadn't bothered to wear anything more than loose trousers to run in, too hot in the heat. Ororo had, of course, teased him for that, but she hardly had anything to worry about – the heat has as much effect on her as the cold. That is to say, none at all.

“Hey, Hank.” Logan says, and he turns his head, regarding the other man with a raised brow. Logan is soaked through too, his vest clinging to his body and showing off the muscle there, his shorts soaked through.

“Good run, is it?” He asks, looking down at the other mutant, and Logan huffs.

“Charlie sent me down town, neglected to tell me _Maximoff_ was running for the same errand. Like there was a point in sendin' me.”

“He has a sense of humour.” Hank points out, and Logan scoffs, pulling out a cigar and managing to light it despite the downpour.

“He has a sense of somethin'.” is the easy retort, and Hank grins at the other man, all white teeth. “Ain't you cold with your fur all wet?”

“Too hot. It's why I'm up and running instead of still in bed.” Logan puffs out a ring of smoke that the rain drops immediately destroy, and then scowls at the air, as if to effect it to stop being so terribly wet. If anyone's frown could do that, of course, it would be Logan's.

He puts a particular _art_ to being displeased by things, Hank thinks.

“Air conditioners not working?”

“Global warming, Logan: waste of energy. Consider the _planet._ ”

“We got green energy. There's solar panels all down the house, _and_ the bio shit, _and_ the ET tech.” comes the ready response, and Hank crosses his arms over his chest, looking at the other man with more than a little irritation.

“It-” Hank grits his teeth, and then says, “It makes my fur frizzy.” Logan's lip twitches, and he knows full well what it will lead to. Logan begins to laugh, his head tipping back, and Hank lets out an irritated sigh. “Why, pray tell, are we still friends?”

“Because of my good looks.” Hank snorts.

“Hardly.” They begin to walk back towards the house, side by side, and Hank says, “So, what did Charles send you down for?”

“Rice. Maximoff had bought twenty bags of the stuff by the time I got back with two.” Hank smiles a little, amused.

“He's a good lad.” He says affectionately, and Logan lets out a scoff of sound.

“Pietro Maximoff is a _lot_ of things, Hank, but “good lad” ain't one of them.”

“And there I was thinking you two were good friends.”

“We are.” Logan says. “And _that's_ how I know.” Hank laughs at that, and they step inside, closing the door behind them.

“How're you planning on getting dry, then, McCoy? Without getting your pretty fur all _frizzy_?”

“Logan, do please shut your mouth. All your ignorant bile appears to be dripping away, and I should hate for you to run out.”

“Hey, beastly BFFs!” Pietro appears between them with a deck of cards in his hands, and those cards flip rapidly from one of his hands to the other as he looks between the two of them. Judging by their scent, he's stolen them (adeptly, of course) from the pockets of young Remy LeBeau.

It's so nice to see Pietro making friends.

“Are we meant to be _your_ BFFs, or BFFs with each other?” Hank asks.

“What in the Hell is a BFF?” asks Logan. Pietro chuckles, and the next second Hank is completely dry – he sees the hand-held hair dryer in the younger man's hand for just a second before it disappears again.

“BFF, my angry friend, is a best friend _forever._ ” Pietro says, and he reaches up, squeezing both their cheeks affectionately. Hank and Logan share a look.

“I ain't your best friend.” Logan grumbles.

“You don't have any friends, Pietro.” Hank adds helpfully, and Logan nods his agreement as he takes a puff from his cigar.

“Doesn't Wanda count?” The boy asks after a short pause, joining in on the teasing even at his own expense.

“No.” Hank and Logan say together, shaking their heads.

“Well, _Remy_ 's my friend.” Pietro maintains.

“Not for long. He don't take well to people stealin' his cards, _ch_ _è_ _r._ ” Logan says in a passable imitation of the Cajun's voice, and Hank snorts, amused at the attempt.

“I would put them back as soon as you can.” Hank advises and the cards disappear from Pietro's hands immediately. He holds them up, newly empty.

“Better?”

“Safer, anyway. Thank you, Pietro, for the blowdry.”

“No problem, old man.” Hank furrows his brow, unimpressed and quite ready to point out the lack of particular difference in their ages, but he's interrupted.

“ _Pietro._ ” The silver haired mutant turns his head, and he looks with wide eyes at Ororo Munroe. “Would you care to explain why there are printed images of your chest in my bedroom?”

“Your bed-” Pietro opens and closes his mouth, scowling. “Okay, so, they weren't _originally_ in your bedroom. Originally they were somewhere else- it's _definitely_ Wanda's fault that they're now in yours.”

“With me.” Ororo says sternly, and Pietro lets out a groan before reluctantly moving to follow her up the stairs.

“Date night, bub?” Logan asks, and Hank opens his mouth, closes it, and looks at the other man with a perplexed expression.

“It _is,_ in fact. However did you know?” Logan grins at him, all teeth as he finishes off his cigar and throws it in the trash to the side of the door.

“Wheels said so.” Hank tuts.

“Hmph, well. She'll be here at six.” Logan raises his eyebrows.

“You missing dinner?”

“We're going to a restaurant. Lebanese.” Hank says, crossing his arms as they move into the main living room.

“You gonna spend any _time_ in the restaurant, or are you gonna go straight to some hotel room?” Hank shrugs.

In truth, they have a reservation _at_ a Lebanese restaurant, and no intention of actually going – their hotel room is booked under a false name two miles from it in order that they can enjoy their evening without SWORD, SHIELD, Xavier or anyone else contacting them.

When Abigail Brand and Hank McCoy are who they are, such precautions really ought be taken.

Of course, the point would be defeated if he told dear Logan where they were going – there is a reason Hank has been avoiding Charles all day.

\---

“Abigail.” Hank purrs, and he catches her by the hip, grinning down at her. She wears tight jeans that hug her thighs, her hips, and a black t-shirt that is cropped short to bare the gemstone shining at her midriff.

“Henry.” She returns, and she grins at him, sliding a hand into his jacket to play over the material of his shirt, stretched somewhat for the sake of the fur under the fabric. “Quite ready?”

“Oh, quite, my viridian darling.”

“Can I put the gag in _now_?”

“In your own mouth, perhaps.” Hank says, and he lets her lead him to her bike; he gets on behind her, and it doesn't so much as creak at their combined weight – it's truly a _fantastic_ little motor. It is made yet more charming, certainly, by virtue of the fantastic young woman at its helm.

“In your dreams, perhaps.” She mocks him easily, deepening her voice and doing a terrible job at mimicking his tone. He chuckles, handing her her helmet.

“Oh, regularly, my dear, quite regularly.” He takes the excuse to put his arms around her waist eagerly enough, and although she goes terribly fast for his liking he honestly doesn't mind – it's good to feel the wind in his fur without feeling the matching thrust through his legs as he runs.

She keeps her helmet on and just lifts her visor to sign them in; he then sneaks to the elevator in order to make their way up to the room. Still on CCTV, of course, but no concierge or receptionist will be making too much commentary on having seen Doctor Hank McCoy in the building on Facebook.

The sound of the hotel room's door closing behind them is, perhaps, the most satisfying sound Hank has heard all week.

“Now, my serpentine sweetheart... Glass of champagne?” She grins at him, her hands moving to begin rapidly unbuttoning his shirt.

“I want something else in my mouth.”

“ _Abby._ ” He scolds her. “So _impa_ -ah-” Her hand is at his throat, squeezing, and he feels just the slightest hint of _too much heat_ at her hand. His eyes drop closed, and he leans into the touch despite the promise of flame in it. “Message received.”

“Loud and clear?” She asks, and he knows without looking that her lips are quirked into that _charming_ , smug little smirk he's often so lucky to see on her features.

“Loud and _crystal_ clear.” Hank answers, obediently. As obediently as he _can_ , anyway – after all, there is a reason he is known as “Beast” as opposed to “Well-Behaved Pet”.

“Clothes _off_.”

“Yours too.” Hank bites back immediately, but he does begin to pull at his suit jacket and rapidly unbutton his shirt, throwing both garments swiftly aside before wriggling out of his trousers.

“No underwear?” Abigail tuts. “A punishment should be given.”

“Oh, yes, my darling, I believe a _spanking_ is in order. Particularly given that you've worn neither briefs _nor_ a brassiere today.” They grin at each other, and then it's a tumble into bed, Hank laying bite after bite over her neck and dragging his teeth down, over her chest.

“Keep going down, and I might _let_ you spank me.” Hank chuckles against her sternum as he dips yet lower, his breath heated over her skin as her nails drag through his fur, scratching at the skin beneath.

“I don't like the sound of that _might_ , Abigail.”

“It's a reward dependent on performance.” She says, and he chuckles, nuzzling against her inner thigh as he pushes her knees apart.

“Is that so? Well then, my chartreuse sweetheart, I really ought get to work.” He cuts off her retort with a drag of his tongue over her vulva, dipping into her entrance as he does so, and she lets out a short, sharp sound.

Oh, how he loves this. He likes the sight of her laid on her back, her legs spread, up on her elbows in order that she can watch him, and he loves the warmth of her thighs either side of her head, and her _scent_ , oh, her _scent!_

He inhales deeply before dipping forwards again, sucking at her clit for a moment before dipping down and dragging his tongue back and forth over her labia, back and forth feeling the flesh soften under his tongue, feel her _widen_ and _slick_ for the sake of his attentions. Her taste stays on his tongue, the taste of Abigail Brand when he has her spread out under his mouth – a personal favourite.

Far better than Lebanese food, and a more _enjoyable_ eating out.

He thrusts his tongue forwards, inside her, and his tongue is dexterous enough that she arches her back, letting out a _groan_ , and the push of her spine, the curve of it, makes her breasts bounce at her chest. Hank _loves_ watching her breasts bounce so.

  


He continues to thrust his tongue, his hands moving over her thighs in order to dig his claws just _slightly_ into the meat of her thighs, and then he pulls back, dragging his slick tongue over her clit again before sucking _hard_ at it.

It doesn't take long – Abigail's orgasm is a sight to see, and she writhes under his mouth. Is it so terrible that he leans back on his heels, watches her keyhole muscles strain and twitch as she comes?

“Scientists.” She complains, and he laughs. Yes, it _is_ so terrible. “I think that was a good performance, Henry.”

“But you want to order room service before I am permitted to _brand_ that backside of yours my own furious scarlet.” She beams at him, the picture of innocence despite having been _thoroughly_ debauched.

“You _sure_ telepathy isn't a secondary mutation of yours, Hank?”

“It might be. I think insouciance might be one of yours.” She kicks him in the shoulder and he laughs, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Now, pray, my darling, what _ought_ we order, hmm?”

“Duck à l'orange. And coq au vin.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Interesting combination.” He comments, and he moves to perch on the side of the bed, stroking over her thigh.

“French chef, French waiter, French kitchen staff.” She says, sitting up and putting her hand through his fur, curling her fingers against his cheek.

“Abigail, would I be correct in assuming the reason this hotel was our selection is because you want me to speak French on the phone?”

“You wouldn't be _wrong._ ” She murmurs, and he smirks at her.

“Donc, du poulet pour nous, et peut-être du gâteaux au chocolat pour le dessert?” He asks, tone teasing.

“Whatever all that is, _go_ for it.” Abigail says lightly, dragging her hand over the fur on his chest. “Just _keep_ doing it.” He presses his mouth to her temple, and then he leans back, grasping at the phone and bringing it to his ear.

“Bonsoir, eh- le français est d'accord? Ouais, be- _e-en-_ ” Hank takes in a sharp breath, and wonders why he hadn't expected the sudden presence of a mouth between his legs. He closes his eyes, and then tries his best to order.

Abigail, of course, makes it as difficult for him as possible, but then, why wouldn't she?

It's their night off, after all: both have free rein to _misbehave._

  



End file.
